


Weight, Warmth

by ultragayest



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Missing Scene, actually a bunch of them! bc i realized this is fully canon-compliant wahoo, also melanie's there briefly. let them be FRIENDS, anyways. martin has a weighted blanket. that's the concept, from pre-series through scotland, mag 160 do not even look in my direction i'm in pain, of sorts?? i suppose that's maybe the closest genre. who's to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultragayest/pseuds/ultragayest
Summary: He’d read somewhere that weighted blankets could be immensely grounding, especially for people with anxiety; that information had returned to him a bit past two in the morning one day as he sat on the floor in front of his couch, trying and failing to compose himself.-------------Martin Blackwood (and a certain comfort item) during his years at the Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 184





	Weight, Warmth

He’d bought the blanket three or four years ago, just a few months before he was transferred down to the archives. Martin’s memories of the actual purchase were blurry at best: he’d read somewhere that weighted blankets could be immensely grounding, especially for people with anxiety; that information had returned to him a bit past two in the morning one day as he sat on the floor in front of his couch, trying and failing to compose himself. A good weighted blanket was quite a bit more expensive than he’d initially hoped—although Martin definitely didn’t know what would qualify one as “good,” let alone if he’d be paying a fair price for the quality—but he hadn’t been able to ignore the thought that it just might help. His bed was piled with no less than seven blankets at any given point, and as much as he loved the pressure of the layers it wasn’t exactly the most comfortable setup come summertime.

So, he bit the bullet, adjusted his budget for the next several weeks, and placed his order.

The weight of it was… surprising, as obvious as it should have been. It was a struggle getting it up the stairwell, sidling around his neighbors with a quiet apology and adjusting the box every so often as it slipped downwards, but when he finally unpacked the box Martin couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. The thing was a dark blue-green, the edges trimmed with a softer grey; as he lifted the blanket and laid it across his sofa it rustled, the fabric and filler creating something that sounded for all the world like a far-off waterfall.

Martin all but collapsed into bed that night, his sheets and a thin comforter the only layers aside from the blanket.

It was the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long while.

* * *

The blanket had hardly crossed Martin’s mind in his haste to secure his flat. 

In retrospect, maybe it would’ve made sense to grab: it was heavy, of course, but beyond that it was far larger than his actual mattress would merit—plenty of material to work with. What was more, the filler and the fairly thin fabric meant it would have been the perfect choice to seal the cracks underneath his front door. Regardless of any logic, though, Martin had forgone any thought of the blanket, panicked as he was, and instead resorted to every other scrap of fabric he could find. Only after making use of all his linens, most of his towels, and a not-insignificant chunk of his wardrobe did he notice the blanket, lying in a heap where it had slid off the foot of his bed earlier that morning.

Martin laughed. He didn’t know what the “right” reaction would be, but something about the situation was so absurd—trapped in a flat by worms, which was only happening because he’d broken into another apartment building, which he’d only done because he was evidently the worst possible person who could have this job—that he couldn’t stop something like a chuckle from escaping. Once he started he couldn’t stop, laughing until it hurt and turned to tears, the coughing and sobbing nearly drowning out the sound of Prentiss’s slow, insistent knocking.

He barely kept himself from outright collapsing on the floor, dragging the blanket across the carpet and pulling it around himself.

* * *

The only thing Martin had when he showed up at the Institute was the blanket, wrapped around his shoulders. Despite giving his statement, what had happened that morning was barely more than a blur in his memories: he’d woken to a flat that felt different—in a good way, this time—with the blanket on his lap, the last third of a can of peaches set in front of him. It had taken him longer than it should have to realize that he couldn’t hear or see or _smell_ any sign of Prentiss, and longer still to work up the nerve to approach the door. He’d flung it open, half certain he’d be attacked before he could even see Prentiss still standing there, and when nothing had lunged for him he’d sprinted down the hall, breath coming in short, painful bursts.

And then…

And then he was at the Institute. And Rosie was looking at him, startled but glad to see him, as he charged past her and towards the Archives. And someone—Tim, maybe?—was calling out his name as he shoved open Jon’s door. And Jon was watching him, something open and concerned and maybe even genuinely sympathetic in his face as Martin stumbled through his story.

He’d seemed… he’d seemed to really care. Like he was really, truly sorry that he’d sent Martin to investigate Carlos Vittery’s old flat. More than once during the statement Martin had seen him open his mouth, only to snap it shut after a moment’s thought; maybe he’d been considering offering comfort?

Wishful thinking, probably.

But now, sat as he was on the edge of the cot in document storage, watching Jon putter around the place to make it somewhat more habitable, Martin found himself imagining that, just maybe, it wasn’t something he’d conjured up. That maybe Jon _did_ care.

The thought lingered long after Jon left the Archives that evening, still hanging over Martin as he drew the blanket up to his chin.

* * *

Luckily, the worms hadn’t found their way to the blanket during Prentiss’s siege on the Institute. Maybe it was a weird thing to be grateful for, but… honestly, Martin already wasn’t doing well by the time he actually made it back to the Institute. Having to face Prentiss again, getting lost in the tunnels, finding Gertrude—and Christ, he still couldn’t think about that, what that _meant_ —was too much. He really couldn’t take another hit, and so seeing the blanket unharmed, if only briefly, helped. 

Not enough to stop him shaking, but enough to say that at least one thing was still stable.

* * *

Jon was… shockingly patient, in the aftermath. Maybe it was just the exhaustion creeping up on him—even Sasha, by far the least injured of them all, was bone-tired, and Martin couldn’t bear to think of how much worse Jon’s injuries were, how much more desperately he needed rest—but he was soft. Quiet. Undeniably _kind_ , as he waited. 

Martin dragged himself into Jon’s office to record his statement, but it took hardly two minutes before the whirring of the tape recorder paused and he glanced up to see Jon staring intently at him.

“There’s something wrong,” Jon said, ever the observant one. His eyes flicked downwards, around Martin’s shoulders, arms—every bit of exposed, potentially infected skin—before settling back on his face. Right around his chin, it seemed.

“No, it’s…” Martin paused, rubbing his arms. “I’m—I’m fine, Jon, really. Should be, anyways.” A long moment, Jon still standing. “I’ll just—we could continue—?”

Something in Jon clicked then, and he stood, leaving the office with the smallest hand signal telling Martin to stay put. Several more moments passed, Martin staring at his hands where they lay in his lap and trying to force himself not to pick at his nails, before the silence of Jon’s office was broken by quiet shuffling from outside. He pulled his gaze back up and was met with the picture of Jon in the doorway, positively dwarfed by the pile of fabric he carried half in his arms, half around his shoulders. Before he had the chance to react, Jon was behind him, draping the blanket over the back of Martin’s chair and straightening back up with a huff.

A beat.

“That’s, ah—that’s quite a bit heavier than I expected.” Martin startled at Jon’s voice, in no small part because the man had moved back behind his desk before Martin even noticed. “I thought, though…” His eyes skimmed over Martin’s hand, automatically clenched around the hem of the blanket the instant it was placed there. “I thought it might help?”

“I—yes, Jon. Thank you.” He didn’t really know what else to say beyond that. Just pulled the blanket tighter, half-burying his face in the folds.

“So,” Jon said, back to that classic, clipped tone, “can we…?”

“Yes, I—of course.” The recorder clicked back on and Martin sighed, steeling himself as the statement began. “I mean, I already told the police—”

* * *

When Jon disappeared, Martin really wasn’t sure what he was meant to do. Technically speaking, Jon was a fugitive—regardless of what Martin thought—so he couldn’t very well just pick up the phone and ask Jon if he was okay.

But it… it wasn’t right. It _couldn’t_ be right. Jon wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t—so maybe he’d been a bit… jumpy, since Prentiss, but that wasn’t him. That wasn’t _Jon_. That was fear, and anxiety—and yes, okay, maybe outright paranoia, but Martin couldn’t just… accept that Jon had gone off and done something like this. It wasn’t like him.

Right?

Everyone else was almost… alarmingly accepting of Jon’s guilt. And maybe it was fair of them to believe it so quickly—he _had_ been watching Tim’s house, after all, and he’d treated them all strangely after Prentiss. But there was a massive leap to be made between strangeness and outright murder, and Jon would _not_ have made that jump.

...Tim, though.

Tim knew immediately, the moment Martin opened the door and they saw the body lying there. He saw, and he knew, and he made sure Martin was well aware that Jon had snapped and done something awful to whoever that might’ve been.

More than anything it was that conviction that sent Martin reeling, kept him shaking long after her made the trek back to his flat, up the stairs, and into the living room. Stuck with him as he went about the kitchen in a daze, blanket draped around him and offering far less comfort than it should. Rang hollow in his ears as he clutched a mug of tea, ignorant to the burning at his fingertips.

_“I told you he was going to do something like this.”_

He had, hadn’t he.

* * *

He was—

It was—

Fine.

Everything was _fine_. 

Melanie had warned him ahead of time, he knew what he was doing when he baited Elias like that, and—and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already expected it, like he didn’t already know how his mother felt, even if he didn’t _Know_ , even if—

“Martin.”

Melanie’s voice. More comforting than it maybe had a right to be. He pulled his head back up, pretending that the tears hadn’t already spilled out, weren’t already dripping off his chin and hitting the collar of his jumper.

“Yes?” 

She still had several files clutched in one hand—probably she was just coming back because he’d taken too long getting up, had wasted precious moments.

“Like I said,” a scowl etched itself even deeper when she saw the state he was in—god, he should’ve at least _tried_ to clean himself up—“let’s get somewhere safe.”

The files were tucked under one arm as Melanie stood back, this time waiting for Martin to push himself out of the chair before following behind him. Her hand landing on his shoulder was… unexpected, to say the least, as she used it to guide him down to the Archives and eventually to one of the battered sofas in the break room. With a muttered “stay here” she was gone—not as long this time, though, as she returned with an armful of jackets before Martin’s thoughts could spiral too much.

“I know it might not help, but…” Melanie began, unfurling one of the coats and spreading it around his shoulders. Unconsciously, Martin drew it closer. “You mentioned a weighted blanket once? A while back. And I know it’s not the same, but—” Another coat, this one bright yellow. Tim’s. “I just… suppose I thought any weight might help a bit. I had one back in uni, and… yeah.”

Martin barely managed a nod, and Melanie continued piling the jackets on. She reached the end and the last was Jon’s; Martin could smell his shampoo and the only thing echoing in his head was _such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly_ —

Melanie shifted on the couch, a spring creaked, and Martin was back.

“I… thanks, Melanie.” His voice was still thick, but he’d stopped crying, at least.

“...Yeah.” She looked like she might be embarrassed—and then it was gone and she was standing again, readjusting the sheaf of papers. “I have to take care of these soon, but—tea? Could put a pot on, really quick.”

“Yeah, I…” Martin swallowed. “...Thanks.”

“No problem.”

* * *

It wasn’t right. 

He was supposed to be _okay_.

Jon was supposed to make it out, and now he and Tim were just—and even Daisy was—

Gone.

Just… gone.

And he had done _nothing_.

Elias was gone now, sure, locked away and taken care of about as neatly as anyone could’ve expected—and Martin had helped Melanie with that, had lured Elias in and kept him _occupied_ while she did the dirty work. And yes, of course that was a good thing, but Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that he should’ve done so much more. Maybe if he had, things wouldn’t be…

Things would’ve gone differently.

But he’d stayed behind, and now he was sat in a carefully neutral hospital room, the cold plastic of his chair’s armrests biting into his thighs. He’d pulled the chair forward almost as soon as he’d arrived, fully in a trance; the side of Jon’s bed pressed up against his knees both grounded him and sent him spiraling even worse than before.

All but brain dead, they’d said.

Coming in, he’d known Jon wouldn’t look… good. Martin has seen people in hospital before, and he wasn’t stupid—coming out of an ordeal like that, even if he didn’t know personally what the Unknowing had been like to experience, wouldn’t have left anyone unscathed. What little he saw of Basira was proof enough of that, but… still. Nothing could’ve prepared him to see Jon like that, wrapped all over and hooked up to countless machines, and—

 _Christ_ , he was so _small_.

There had always been something about him, about the way he carried himself, that had Martin forgetting that: Jon had never been larger than life in the way Tim was, but he gave off this… this aura, this sense of professionalism and knowledge that radiated off of him from well before he was ever appointed as Head Archivist. Of course, some of that professionalism had waned over the years as he’d gradually broken down from the stress, and yet…

It was the stillness, Martin thought. Jon was always moving, drumming his fingers or bouncing his knee or flicking a pen back and forth, back and forth, rhythmically tapping either side of his hand as he made his way through a statement or a particularly dense piece of follow-up research. Without that constant motion, it felt for all the world like Jon would vanish if Martin so much as blinked. So he slid a warm hand underneath a cold one, wove fingers together, and hoped more than anything that he might feel a hint of that warmth, movement, _life_ —in return.

He didn’t.

* * *

As much as Jon’s hand felt like ice in his own, the room wasn’t exactly warm either—and so, Martin was able to write off bringing the blanket from his flat as more of a matter of practicality than sentiment. That excuse fell a bit flat as Martin found himself spreading the thing across Jon’s lap more and more often, whether just to brighten up the space or lend some amount of residual comfort that, if this were fiction, would’ve brought color back to Jon’s cheeks in a matter of moments.

When the decision to leave the blanket with Jon came, Martin couldn’t say. It didn’t feel right to leave Jon so alone, so cold, and… well. It was selfish, Martin supposed, to take comfort in leaving it there. Jon didn’t look any more alive than he did under the hospital bedding alone—hair dull and tangled about dozens of wires, skin a darker grey than should be possible in someone still living (which, Martin had to remind himself, actually _wasn’t_ possible for someone still living)—but having something less clinical there made it easier, somehow, to look past everything else.

When he finally agreed to work with Peter, Martin left the blanket behind. Jon was gone, not coming back, but… he deserved to rest.

* * *

Jon came back.

He shouldn’t have, couldn’t have, but—he had. He was _back_.

And Martin absolutely could not see him.

He had a reason to work with Peter now, beyond the hopeless agreement he’d first made. Jon was back, he was _alive_ , and Martin had another name to add to his list of people to protect.

He couldn’t ruin things again.

* * *

Martin didn’t notice the blanket at first.

He was… he’d been trying, so _hard_ , to avoid the Archives and everyone here. And it was getting easier, far faster than he’d thought it would—but that was good, of course that was good, and it made the times he couldn’t put off going down to the basement (less and less often, now) not nearly as difficult, and—

It caught his eye when he slipped past the break room.

He shouldn’t have been down there in the first place, what with so many people now more or less living out of the Archives—but it was late, and he needed to double check something, reference an old statement that he couldn’t remember the exact details of, and he was… quiet. He could be quiet, move carefully enough that no one should notice him, regardless of whether or not the fog that swelled around Peter had begun creeping up around his feet as well.

(It had.)

When he passed the break room the first time, Martin was able to convince himself that he’d imagined it—a trick of the light, maybe, or just a matter of him being so tired that he’d conjured up a pile of dark teal fabric slung over the back of the ratty old couch. More likely he’d just mistaken it for another blanket—one of many that had migrated into the break room over the past several months, joining an only occasionally folded pile in one corner.

Regardless, when he walked past the second time—frustrated and confused, mind churning over what could and couldn’t be legitimate about Peter’s pet theory—he noticed it again. This time, Martin found himself crossing the threshold of the break room, as though pulled by an invisible thread; he stood staring down, running his fingers along the trim, past the one bump where the fabrics weren’t perfectly joined, feeling—

“Martin?”

Martin’s eyes jumped to the door—and there was Jon, disheveled as he always seemed to be (some distant part of Martin wanted to chide him, remind him that he needed rest and caffeinated tea didn’t count for that)—and froze.

“Martin, I…” Jon was staring at him, daring him to move—or maybe begging him to—as his words trailed off, falling like so much dead weight to the ground. Martin felt the corner of the blanket fall as well, sliding from the loose grip he’d had on it and hitting the back of the sofa with a quiet _thunk_ , the sound seeming to echo over the faint buzz of the overheads. Jon’s eyes went with it and Martin stepped backwards, his hip bumping into the edge of a table and pushing it several inches.

Jon’s eyes snapped up at the sound and, though it had been only seconds, Martin could tell something had changed. _He_ had changed, apparently—because Jon was now looking _through_ him, almost, eyes scanning the space where he still stood but not quite registering his presence. Skimming the outline of where he was and landing right around his chin.

It was hard for Martin not to let a laugh slip out, something bitter and short, because—really, why was he surprised? What reason was there for this _not_ to happen? He hadn’t realized how far gone he was, but… it made sense enough.

“...oh.” Jon’s eyes lingered for a moment before falling back to the blanket, right where Martin’s hand had been. It took him only a few halting steps to cross the distance, running scarred fingers along that same seam; in that time Martin made it back to the door, pausing with one hand on the frame when he heard Jon speak again.

“Martin, I—I don’t know if you’re still here, but… I hope you’re alright.” Martin turned, swallowing hard and watching as Jon curled his hand up in a section of the dark fabric; more than anything he wished that he’d left his hand there just a moment longer, enough time for Jon to reach for it instead of the blanket. His grip on the doorframe tightened without him thinking, accompanied by the faintest creaking noise—and Jon glanced up, hopeful, eyes landing on Martin again but sliding off without a moment’s hesitation.

Several long moments passed, Jon searching and Martin staying for a reason he wasn’t sure existed. It took Basira making her way towards the break room for things to shatter and Martin to flee, finding himself back behind Elias’s old desk and opening up emails before he knew what he was doing. 

At the very least, throwing himself into his work to avoid human interaction would likely keep him on track for Peter’s plan.

Hours later, long past when he used to head home for the night, Martin found himself needing to return to the Archives. More quietly this time, more carefully, but it needed done, and—he could do it. Once again, he ignored the break room on first passing, focused more on avoiding the potential for confrontation that came hand in hand with entering the basement. He couldn’t stop himself looking in as he went to head back upstairs, though; maybe, if the space was empty, he could take a moment to… say goodbye, perhaps? Relive the few happy memories he had down here before throwing them out for good?

It wasn’t empty.

Jon was sat on the sofa, curled up with his shoes still on as though he’d done so the moment Martin had left the room. Clearly he hadn’t done exactly that, though: he had wrapped himself up in the blanket, in _Martin’s_ blanket, and tucked up against one of the armrests, so carefully covered that only his face and the tips of his shoes poked out. After a moment he stirred, and Martin froze; Jon shifted and pulled the edge of the blanket closer to his face, taking a deep breath and sighing before settling down once more.

Something in Martin ached.

He ran.

* * *

What was Jon—what was he even _thinking_ , suggesting something like that? After Martin had been avoiding him for weeks, months, making it so very clear that he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , have anything to do with him, he—he came to him with _that_?

He’d scrambled, at first, caught off guard by the absurdity of the situation—and then he’d _laughed_. He’d laughed because of course, of course this was happening, after years of poorly-repressed feelings Jon was literally asking him to run away with him, and he couldn’t follow. Beyond that, he couldn’t even find it in himself to consider following.

The look on Jon’s face burned into Martin even as he turned away, retreating from a battle lost before there was even a battle to be had. Eyebrows knitted together, eyes confused and concerned, mouth hanging open as he tried again and again to jump in, to explain his plan, his reasoning, why Martin should listen. That softer look of crushed resignation that _pulled_ at Martin as he shot Jon down, as he paused and offered some sort of last-ditch offer for help.

_“Just don’t wait too long, okay?”_

As the door swung shut behind him Martin shook himself, tugging his jacket around his shoulders and swallowing past something painful in his throat before turning back to his computer.

Was it bad if he didn’t care that he already had?

* * *

It was nice, almost, not having to care anymore.

The fear really was quiet here.

The pain, too.

* * *

After the numbness, the quiet, Jon’s hand in his burned in the best possible way.

* * *

Martin couldn’t sleep.

After Jon pulled him from the Lonely, it was hard to keep from… drifting, was probably the best word for the situation. He’d get a little too still, start thinking a little too much—and then color and sensation would bleed away, the world beginning to blur at the edges, and Jon would have to grab onto him again to get things to solidify. Martin never saw it happen, of course, but from the look on Jon’s face… it wasn’t pretty. Not a fun experience for him, and not a fun experience for his… whatever he and Jon were, now.

Regardless—it had been easier, keeping himself grounded, before they made it to the safe house. Not easy by any means—in their world, could anything really qualify as “easy” any more?—but less troublesome, at least. Harried tourists shoulder-checking him out of the way was unpleasant but a physical reminder of his space, and the rhythmic shaking of the train had made that particular leg of the journey shockingly pleasant; being surrounded by the movement, sound, weight of the world made losing his grip on things considerably more difficult.

Here, though? Here, things were quiet.

He’d noticed it almost as soon as they’d arrived, leaping at the chance to build a fire to fill the silence with _something_. A sound he could feel, could latch onto, was always a help: the fire crackling, or the water running as they washed dishes together, or even the sound of Jon’s breathing.

Martin tried to focus on that now, tried to center himself with the almost-inaudible breaths of the man lying next to him. Tried to narrow his focus to the warmth pressed against his side and radiating under the sheets (Daisy had not, apparently, seen fit to outfit the safehouse with more than a handful of extra blankets). Held himself back from grabbing for that warmth as he lost what focus he might’ve had.

Being out here with Jon, _safe_ , was the happiest Martin had felt in a long time—that much more unfortunate, then, that he could feel himself slipping and could do nothing to stop it.

When Martin slipped, _drifted_ , it wasn’t always easy for him to notice—to catch it in time. The visuals were a tell, sure, but they weren’t always enough—and now, in the dark, with the only real colors he could see already blue and black and grey, they wouldn’t have helped even if he had noticed. He could feel himself spiraling, falling back into thought patterns he’d become so familiar with when he was younger, that had reappeared stronger and more frequent in the past several years. Trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, hardly even picking up on it as physical sensation started to fade, started to be replaced by the ghost of a cool breeze. And then—a tipping point, a numbness where his brain just _stopped_ , and he closed his eyes, hardly even feeling himself breathe.

A sound twitched at him, barely registering through the haze. And then again, stronger this time, sharper, tugging at him. He felt himself respond, maybe, words tumbling out without him caring enough to register them—something about “let me go” and “why even bother” and “never be worth it”—and the sound go silent.

Then it came again, even louder, and he felt the warmth and the weight of _something_ on his arm and his chest and the side of his face and—

And there was Jon. Fear on his face, hair hanging down where it had come loose in the night, and Martin was _acutely_ aware of each point of contact—Jon’s knee against his arm, one hand pressed against his chest, the other cupped around his cheek.

“Hi,” Martin said, because what was there to say? To explain? They both knew what had happened.

“Martin, I—” Jon was still fully on top of him, and Martin could feel the warmth of his breath. “Are you—are you alright? How are you feeling?”

He closed his eyes and fought back the instinct to laugh—when, _when_ was the last time any of them were any sort of “alright”?

“Not—not alright, not really,” he opened his eyes, “but. Okay, I think. Better.”

Jon sighed, and something like a smile spread across his face—small, and sad, and definitively scared, but there nonetheless.

“Better is—better is good.”

Jon moved his hand from Martin’s cheek, running it down until he found Martin’s own hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. In a quick series of movements—clumsy and fumbling in the dark, but so human and so good and so _Jon_ —he readjusted his position, settling back down beside Martin, pressed closer than before.

Despite the warmth of Jon’s body, Martin felt cold again. Light, impermanent. Like the breeze flowing in from the open window—completely temperate and barely even there—would send him floating, spiraling, _drifting_ again at a moment’s notice.

Something clicked, and Martin remembered—the pressure and warmth and _comfort_ of dark teal fabric wrapped around him. Left behind in the Institute, somewhere in the chaos and screaming as they fled.

“Jon?”

“Yes, Martin?”

“I—could you, maybe—you know, never mind.” He felt his arm being pulled ever so slightly and turned his head, met with the image of Jon propped up on one elbow and staring at him.

“What is it, Martin?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Martin, please.”

“I—do you remember that weighted blanket I had? The one I left with you, in, uh—in the hospital?”

“Yes, I—I remember.”

“Do you think—” He cut himself off, letting out a deep exhale. No use backtracking. Just—just get it out. “It helped me a lot, with anxiety? That’s why I bought it, and—I was thinking how much I wish I hadn’t left it at the Institute.”

“I could—I could check to see if Daisy has some blankets, somewhere? I know you already looked, but I could see if maybe—” And now Jon was pulling away, making to get up, and that was the last thing Martin needed.

“No, no, I—I did already check, you’re right, but I was thinking, maybe…” Another deep breath, and the words left him in a rush. “D’you think maybe you could lie on top of me?”

A beat. Just long enough for Martin to regret ever saying anything—to realize how _ridiculous_ he was being, asking for something like this.

And then Jon’s knee was poking him in the side, and the mattress was creaking, and he could feel long, dark hair tickling the side of his face.

“Is—is this alright?” He heard Jon ask, softer than before. He was looking at him again, eyes shining in the darkness, full of so much care and concern that Martin felt himself choking up.

“Yeah, I—yeah. As long as you’re…?” He trailed off, waiting for a response as Jon continued to look at him.

“It’s—it’s nice, being close.” His eyes moved down, his brows creasing.

“Comforting?” Jon’s eyes flicked back to his.

“Reassuring, to know—to know we’re both still here.”

“Yeah, that… that makes sense.”

It took a few minutes for them both to settle, Jon constantly apologizing for bony joints and Martin promising him that no, really, it was fine. Eventually they found a position that worked for the both of them: Jon curled up across Martin’s torso, with Martin’s arm flung around his back and Jon’s head resting on his shoulder. Martin turned and looked at him, feeling warm and comfortable and _safe_ , and smiled.

“Night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

* * *

When Martin woke the next morning to a tangled mess of limbs and the sight of Jon’s frankly appalling bedhead, he laughed—warm and genuine, from a time before statements and avatars and entities and the horrible, terrible wrongness their world had become. Jon woke not long after, still half asleep when he suggested they stay as they were a while longer. Martin, already shutting his eyes again, agreed.

There, Jon wrapped in his arms, Martin felt better rested than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> me, one calendar year ago: yeah i'm getting back into writing fic!  
> me, one calendar year later: well 
> 
> anyways martin blackwood owns my whole heart!! also you can really tell i've been exclusively writing scripts for the past year, huh


End file.
